


floorbecue (with a c)

by phanetixs



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: F/F, F/M, because domesticity is always something to write about, boyfriends at the grillz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 22:59:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11091690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phanetixs/pseuds/phanetixs
Summary: “Phil Lester; love of my life, fire of my loins,” Dan pinches the bridge of his nose, “why do I have a thousand pound grill against my feet?”Or, a thing about a thing.





	floorbecue (with a c)

**Author's Note:**

> about their attempted barbecue -- and how writing about a George Foreman grill only reminds me about that episode of the Office

 

The barbecue is a new idea because they finally have a full garden balcony and enough time away from buggering off on holiday to actually _do_ something it. Phil goes off to town one morning—but makes Dan pancakes first, bless him—and comes back with one of those big George Foreman electric grills and Dan’s immediate thought is to ask how Phil’d lugged it to their duplex with his kind of stamina. And then, what the fuck. 

“What the fuck?” Dan says, eyeing up the grill and the Phil wheezing behind it. Phil looks two minutes from regretting his life choices up to this current moment.

 _One minute_ , Phil gestures, holding a hand to his chest and coughing out the wheezes. Dan thinks his boyfriend is about to have a coronary here in their living room. If Phil dies, will it be _DanandDeadGames?_ Also, Phil can’t _die_ —they haven’t gotten a corgi yet. 

“You can’t die on me,” Dan says finally, vaguely concerned, “also, I’ll get you a cup of tea. Sit down, old man.” 

Dan hears Phil’s coughs die out as he pads over to the couch and sets the cup on the table. The George Foreman grins at them from its place, half tilted on its side next to them. They have a _fucking grill_ , Dan absently realises. 

“Phil Lester; love of my life, fire of my loins,” Dan pinches the bridge of his nose, “why do I have a thousand pound grill against my feet?” Impeccable timing: a pause between one Frank Ocean song and the next on the loudspeakers so there’s nowhere for Phil to hide.

“ _What_?” Phil asks, relatively nonchalant, “I was out and saw a grill. Now we _own_ a grill, isn’t that exciting!” Tongue peeking out between front teeth, slight sweat on his brow and cheeks flushed from prior physical exertion. Phil still looks like the hottest thing Dan’s ever seen.

“Yeah,” Dan says, distracted. “Wait, _what_? Phil, remember our discussion about _pre-planned_ purchases? After the fucking houseplants. You _can’t_ just buy these things on a whim, Phil.” And he’s not angry, really, but he just wishes Phil would’ve told him first. 

“Sorry! But, look at it!” Dan does, and is easily unimpressed by the shade of plain brown in his eyeline. The sketch of what the grill’s supposed to look like plastered over the front side. Phil kisses him on the cheek in apology. 

“You’ll love it, promise!” Phil says, sincere, and scampers over to unbox. 

 

-

 

Phil’s right, Dan _does_ love it. But to be fair (and completely mean to Phil, because that’s Dan’s job, basically), Dan argues he would’ve loved any kind of grill—thousand pound or _not_ , he sends Phil a pointed look—because he feels like his dream of proper domestic life has finally been achieved. What’s more _eight years together this November_ than a shared grill and promise of a barbecue dinner party. Multiple parties. Because the box says the grill will last upwards of ten years. God _bless_ the box.

It looks all shiny, silver and enough space for some chicken, a little lamb on the side. Phil’s already planning a get together that night (and suspiciously stocked up on meat the day before. Something tells Dan buying it was not _impulsive_ at all)—Martyn and Cornelia, Bryony and Wirrow. 

“Neighbours?”

“Pretty sure they hate me after the pigeon thing,” Phil replies, squinting at the manual, “but they’re gonna love us after I heat this bad boy up.” 

Dan, busy marinating meat in a tray, just snorts. “This coming from a guy who’s never operated a grill before? I won’t hold my breath.”

“ _Hey,_ ” Phil says, indignant, holds up the booklet, “this might be a dictionary of words I don’t understand but like. I know _grills_. I’m a manly man. With a capital M. Like,” Phil struggles to cup his hands like a bracket, “a [Man].”

“You fucker,” Dan laughs, leaning over to swat him with his sauce-y hand and Phil squeals a bit. “But if we’re inviting the neighbours, it better be good. Rather not scare off that old lady who lives on 2.” 

“Heard she makes a good apple crumble,” Phil muses, going back to squinting, seemingly unbothered by the distinct shape of fingerprints on his white t-shirt. 

“Yeah, duh, _that_ ’s why, Phil.”

 

-

 

As per addendum, it goes semi-ok in the beginning.  

Their balcony is a bit chilly, temperatures dipping below the twenties with the sweltering heat of morning wearing off. It’s past five now and Phil’s starting on his meat and Dan’s busy following a Reddit thread on his phone. Typical Day in the Life, Dan thinks.

“Meat man, hello,” Dan hollers, smiles at the half-naked man on Phil’s apron. “Guests should be arriving soon, so, _chop chop_ ,” Dan says, snapping his fingers.

“Ha.” Phil smiles back. “Pun.” 

“I try my best,” Dan replies, walking up to Phil and dragging a palm up and down his spine in comfort. Phil looks concerned, a small furrow in his brow, neck a bit damp from standing close to the heat. Dan leans in, snakes a hand around Phil’s waist to keep him steady, and inhales the aroma of…grilling meat. Not as sexy as Dan expected it to be. 

“So far so good, babe,” Because Phil likes pet names secretly, “you know, if you keep this up, some _one_ might get rimmed tonight.” Dan sing-songs, nudges his shoulder against Phil’s. 

“Mmm,” Phil nuzzles his nose into Dan’s dimple. “I’m really glad you’re okay with this,” Phil tells him, lowers his voice and whispers into his ear, “we have a _grill_.” Like it’s the solution to every problem in the universe, to every ominous voice in Dan’s head. 

“ _We_ have a grill.” Dan can't help the awe in his voice.

 

-

 

Their four guests (after further discussion, neighbours they would save for a later date, thank _god_ ) all come with wine, immediately follow the scent of spicy chicken to their balcony. 

“Brother!” Martyn says, aghast. “Haven’t seen you voluntarily flipping meat since we were ten and Dad had to force you to handle the _spatula_.” He grins that infectious Martin grin and pats Phil on the back like proper bros. “Dan has _changed_ you,” he comments, eyeing Dan walking in with glasses and plates. 

“Oh yes, meat-flipping since the ’09’s, for sure.” 

Cornelia giggles and hugs them both. “Still proud of you guys, look at this place.” There’s the setting Sun in the horizon and the view of South Londoners winding down all around them. Tall buildings and trees. 

They stand for awhile, Dan next to Phil and leaning into each other. Martyn talking about the new amusement park in Manchester they _have_ to visit some day, guys, and Cornelia talking about something on the telly. Bry and Wirrow get in soon after and it’s a fiesta, proper.

“We have tequila instead,” they say. 

It’s about seven when they’re all seated by at the table outside, windy a bit and cooler than usual. _It’s because the five of us are in the same place, sorry Phil,_ Dan jokes, filling wine glasses and eyes glinting. 

Phil’s handling a large tray of meat. He’s laughing at Dan’s joke one minute and suddenly is sprawled across the wooden floorboards, moaning in pain. There’s a bird pecking at a piece of meat next to the plant across the balcony. 

“Phil!” Dan exclaims; everyone now stifling laughter. _What happened?_ , nobody asks because most people are well-versed with Phil’s gangly lack of coordination. And anyway, Phil looks amused beyond anything else.

“Ouch,” Phil still says, “that hurt.” Which is cue for Dan to coo at that little bump on his forehead and rub a palm against his swollen arm. They’re close enough to kiss, so Dan does, and Phil’s tiny ministrations die on his lips. 

“That’s _not_ where he’s injured, Dan,” Wirrow teases snidely, throwing a piece of bread at them and cackling when it hits Phil on the forehead.

“You're a dick.”

Martyn says, “ _Language_ , Phil,” like he’s Mum, and the Lester boys bicker like they're twelve again. 

 

Dan smiles at his family, _this_ family.

 

-

At the end, as per usual, “Anyone wants pizza?” 

-

 

“Good day?” 

They’re in bed and slightly woozy off too much wine and really, really good Dominos with the extra cheese. Dan thinks the extra carbs are permissible after the shit attempt at dinner. But the George Foreman grill still looks pretty damn good and they’d be up for another try in the future— after they baby-proof the balcony for Phil’s sake.

“Yeah, well, you falling was the highlight,” Dan giggles, kissing up Phil’s neck a bit.

“Next time will be better.” Phil says like a promise. They have ten more years of this, at least. 

“Yeah, because _I’ll_ grill, and you sit in the corner and look pretty.” And they both know Dan won’t grill because watching Phil sweaty, hard at work, is a fantasy in of itself. And so is this: pillow talk about ten years in the future. 

_Next time, next time._

Dan dimples, cheeks go pink. 

Good day, for sure.

 

**Author's Note:**

> @phanetixs on tumblr & twitter! let me know if you found this interesting/realistic? i tried my best :)


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